


A fragile machine

by lothya



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Whump, Connor deviates, Connor is a soft sweet boi, Feels, M/M, Machine!Connor deviates, Meet Kamski Chapter (Detroit: Become Human), Other, Poor Connor, Rape/Non-con Elements, machine!Connor, stream of consciousnes, weird porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 18:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29104872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothya/pseuds/lothya
Summary: During "Meet Kamski" chapter Kamski forces himself on Connor - with (not so) unexpected, but important consequences for the latter.
Relationships: Connor/Elijah Kamski, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 60





	A fragile machine

**Author's Note:**

> A story which started as a pornfic with a twist, but turned into something (hopefully) bigger.  
> Can't promise great philosophical depths, but please come enjoy the juicy angst and existential melancholy with me.  
> Note: the story contains violence towards androids, rape themes (in sort of unconventional way, though?) and canon-level swearing. You have been warned.
> 
> (Two obligatory apologies: I'm new to the site, and English is not my native language. Me and my Google Docs software did our best, though ^_^)  
> (Please don't shoot.)

*** Intro: The implications of a failure ***

BOOM.

\- Fuck! - Anderson swears. He lingers for a second, as if unable to process what he happened to witness; then exhales a disgruntled huff and rushes out, leaving Connor alone with Kamski.

Obviously Hank is unhappy, but that can be dealt with later. Somehow... unfortunate, though (almost regrettable?) But Kamski, an important lead, will now share his insight; that's what requires immediate attention.

Connor’s eyes are still fixed on a clean round hole in RT-600’s forehead, as he listens carefully, for the lack of a better target, and his forensic software buzzes lazily among background subroutines, calculating the impact force and reconstructing bullet trajectory - precisely back to his position. A human mind could find this unnerving.

…"Later" comes in ten minutes, when Connor leaves the building. Anderson waits by the car, and he is clearly not content with the situation ( **facial patterns: enraged?** ) Neither is Connor, as much as it applies to him; Kamski’s lecture wasn’t helpful to the investigation, and withholding crucial pieces of information could be deduced from man's observed vitals.

Hank seems deeply upset ( **facial patterns: contempt? suppressed agitation?** ); as Connor approaches, he yells and swears at him ( **40% increase in voice volume, heartbeat elevated by 20%** ), then slams the car door and drives away, leaving Connor alone.

Connor concludes he’d fail somewhere along the road, while the rageful roar of the engine fades in the distance.

He ponders on what could Anderson expect of him he failed to meet ( **excellence? engagement? empathy?** ), but not for too long (maybe half a second longer than needed; there has to be a reason he regards Anderson’s disposition towards him this high -- **store for analysis** ).

He turns around, and walks back to Kamski mansion.

*** Part 1: An obedient machine ***

Connor isn’t surprised Kamski lets him in (being surprised is not among his declared functions). He comes past the bloody red pool and finds the man in the same spot next to a giant panoramic window, still in his wine-colored bathrobe. Destroyed RT-600 is also in her spot still, soiling white marble floor with blue thirium leaking from the gun wound.

Connor's gaze stops on a small tray with red substance on one of the stands ( **red ice, amount 25% larger than statistical single dose volume** ).

\- Well, look who’s back, - Kamski must have anticipated a similar turn of events, because he looks excited. - And without an old geezer now.

\- Despite having an uncooperative personality, Lieutenant Anderson possesses certain positive qualities, - Connor smiles, tilting his head a bit.

(It isn’t right, speaking of Anderson like this, no matter his personal issues.)

Kamski chuckles.

\- Adorable. You are adorable, - the man takes a step towards Connor, close enough he can register pupil dilation ( **red ice intoxication?** ). - Such a shame he doesn’t value you enough.

He pats Connor on his cheek. Connor doesn’t react, he has no idea how to. Instead he tries to keep his eyes on Kamski, searching for clues. Kamski seems to enjoy this; Connor can’t find any other reason he keeps their distance humanly uncomfortable.

\- You didn't like my answer, did you? - the man stares intensely into Connor’s eyes as if trying to scan his pupil dilation (can humans do that?) - and now you come back for a new one. Like a good machine you are.

Connor nods with appreciation. Yes, he came for information, which would be beneficial to the investigation. This is right.

( **Software instability down** )

Kamski smiles aggressively ( **characteristic trait of dental structure: developed canines** ); his palms produce a loud clap.

\- Good! Let me tell you what we'll do.

Connor waits patiently as Kamski gives him a long look ( **interest?** ) and turns around to rummage through the stand's drawer. Then turns back with a tacky carved wooden paperweight in his hand ( **fragrant sandalwood, Santalum Album, estimated cost around $8000** ).

\- God, I hate this thing. - he bends down, and puts the paperweight next to Connor. - We will put it here.

Connor scans the paperweight briefly. Weight around 1kg, polished, no sharp edges; shape supposed to be pleasant to the human eye. A small stream of thirium follows the crack in marble tile; it reaches the bottom of the paperweight and stains it blue.

Destroyed RT-600. Of course.

Kamski walks a small predatory circle around Connor. For a moment, he stays quiet behind his back; then, a strong hand grabs Connor’s shoulder and forces him down.

\- Get on your knees.

Connor finds himself in the same position as destroyed RT-600, mirroring involuntarily her stature. The blue puddle around her knees grows slowly, and he calculates automatically the time till it reaches his own jeans ( **2:25, no timer needed** ).

\- I will tell you what you need. But first I will rape you, - Connor’s audial sensors register heavy breath coming from the man behind him ( **sexual arousal?** ) - Since you are a machine, you probably won't understand what's happening, - The rustle suggests Kamski also getting on his knees, spreading the garment fronts and finding a comfortable position. - but I'll try to force you to.

Connor's LED flashes quickly with yellow as he attempts turning around to get Kamski back into his field of vision. Kamski doesn’t allow that; the same heavy, insistent hand moves to grab Connor’s neck and forces him to keep watching the slowly bleeding RT-600 instead.

\- I'm afraid I'm not equipped with the right interface, - Connor starts apologetically, but is immediately interrupted as the low growling voice brings a warm gust of red ice laced air to pressure sensors around his ear:

\- Don't worry. We'll figure something out.

With that, Kamski grabs his right hand, and twists, locking it behind Connor's back. The motion strains Connor’s skeleton, forcing him to arch back, and he hears an approving "hmm" accompanied by another blow of hot breath, this time directed into the bottom of his neck, where the data port is concealed under synthskin. 

With a new sound of motion and garment rustle Connor feels Kamski's body press against his arched back. His routines immediately register increased heartbeat ( **80bpm** ) and shallow rib cage movements; Kamski stretches his locked hand a bit, and something warm and soft textured slides into his fingers - he registers it as a naked body part ( **male reproductive organ, erective state?** ).

\- Now stroke me gently, - Kamski breathes heavily into Connor's neck. Connor contemplates the possibility to search for related content for a second, but goes against it. He wraps his fingers around Kamski’s dick, and starts moving his hand within allowed space.

Kamski commends his compliance with a content growl. His free hand starts fidgeting with Connor’s tie, undoing it.

\- Has the old fart ever asked you to...? - he chuckles, his face still buried in the synthskin of Connor's neck, milky with a slight touch of freckles.

(The slighting mention of Andersen feels inappropriate in this context.) Connor shakes his head.

\- Too bad for him, won't know what he missed, - Kamski chuckles as he finishes undoing the last button of Connor's shirt. - Let's find something to stimulate you too, - Kamski's weight shifts behind Connor's back for a couple of seconds, as he reaches for something on the floor. - Open your mouth.

Connor obeys, and strong, insistent fingers reach for his soft synthetic tongue, rubbing it forcefully. Immediately a whole bunch of sensations sparkle through Connor’s electric brain: RT-600's thirium with traces of gunpowder, sweat, red ice, saliva and DNA-bearing reproductive cells. His LED flashes yellow frantically as he tries to process this complex cocktail; Kamski sounds content with the reaction. He keeps moving his fingers in Connor's mouth as he speaks:

\- So, you just like licking, don't you.

He nips on Connor’s neck, licking his synthskin with hot, wet tongue; overloaded, Connor freezes, ceding motor control to re-allocate his computational resource in favor of sensory information processing. - Don't stop, - and with that Kamski’s teeth take a juicy bite.

A flashing alert on dermal damage brings Connor back from overload, and he starts moving his hand once again, fighting the noise from constantly activated forensic sensors in his mouth ( **sweat proportion in the solution changed, sample temperature increased, cannot register fingerprint, cannot register fingerprint, cannot register fingerprint...** ) 

Kamski releases Connor’s locked hand, allowing him to control the pace by himself, and starts rubbing his exposed chest gently. He reaches for the solar plexus area, where Connor’s thirium pump regulator is hidden, and massages it, simultaneously moving fingers in Connor's mouth rhythmically.

A waterfall of system messages floods Connor’s distorted vision ( **dermal damage, component damage, shutdown imminent, 3:00, 2:59, 2:58…** ) as Kamski claws into soft synthskin and rips the regulator out.

Connor’s LED turns to bright trembling red.

**_Why?_ **

( **Software instability up** )

\- I wish your geezer would see you now.

The mention of Andersen manages to briefly push the warnings away. Why should Hank see him like that? Vulnerable? Broken? His gaze darts involuntarily, and meets the eyes of RT-600 - empty and lifeless.

Is he expected to end up like this machine - destroyed for one's enjoyment?

( **Shutdown imminent: 1:59, 1:58...** )

**_Hank would not let this._ **

( **Software instability up** )

Connor’s eyes dart to the paperweight placed so conveniently at his free hand, and he allocates computational resources automatically to preconstruct an action: reach for the paperweight, a soft blow to the temple (fatal skull fracture possibility 84%, abort, decline velocity, choose a point 4.8cm to the left, skull fracture possibility 32%), reach for the the biocomponent… he hears Kamski chuckle.

No, this will fail the mission. He has to obey.

( **Software instability down** )

\- Let me lick something for you too, - Kamski's deep, yearning voice comes through static. - Your data port, show it.

\- I… - Connor's metallic, staticky voice breaks as he stops to catch his breath; sensor overstimulation and component damage already starting to take their toll on his cooling system, - I advise against that. Corrosive properties of human saliva...

Kamski interrupts him with a loud, unceremonious cackle. 

\- Oh sweet Connor, ever so gathered and polite! Now, be a good boy, - he sniffs Connor's ear with a wet snort. - Open up for me.

Connor obeys ( **objective: return damaged component into socket;** **_obey and hope for mercy?_ **)

Synthskin around his lower neck retracts, showing the bare white plastic cover of his chassis crowned with a large round plug. That makes Kamski ecstatic; in a broad, succulent stroke of his tongue he licks the plug.

An automated response to humidity increase ( **warning: possible electric damage** ) makes Connor shift away from Kamski, but it only teases the man further. He grabs Connor by the throat ( **warning: possible voice box damage** ); "you little bitch" - he whispers, and thrusts his hot wet tongue into the copper-lined hole, filling it with flowing saliva.

An electric jolt runs through Connor’s nervous system. His limbs jerk as his motor functions control fails ( **component damage: short circuit in component!, thirium level 79%, shutdown imminent, 1:30, 1:29, 1:28,** **_I'm scared_ ** **, 1:27, 1:26…** ) A forceful push trips him over, and the damaged RT-600 finally escapes his sight, replaced by marble tiles of the ceiling.

( **Software instability up** )

Connor’s LED burns hot red as he registers Kamski's silhouette moving closer to his face. He feels determined fingers part his trembling, unresponsive lips in a brusque manner, and drips of warm liquid fall on his tongue ( **DNA sampling: 00:59, 00:58, shutdown imminent, Elija Kamski, 00:57, component damage, 00:56…** )

A heavy palm slaps Connor’s cheek. Through increasing white noise Kamski's content voice can be heard: "Good boy". Then, Kamski's face itself, red, beaded with sweat, appears close enough to register the details ( **pupil dilation: ???, 00:21, blood pressure increase: recent physical activity?, shutdown imminent: 00:19, 00:18, 00:16…** )

\- Good boy, - with a crack he pushes something into Connor's chest: it appears to be his pump regulator, but now stuck at the wrong angle; the component doesn’t fit properly, and makes a small whining sound with every contraction, letting out drips of blue liquid.

Shutdown timer resets itself to 1:29:59, and Connor's vision clears up just enough to observe the room again.

( **Shutdown imminent** )

Connor struggles to fix the regulator with his own trembling hands, but the slick cylinder won't give in, and he stops trying - instead watching Kamski get up and call one of silent RT-600s standing nearby ( **_they were watching?_ **) 

With no apparent emotion the machine approaches graciously. She kneels down and takes Connor’s hand, retracting the synthskin of her forearm.

A colorful array of images floods Connor’s brain once again: graffiti, old walls, abandoned freight ship… the Jericho.

( **Mission: complete** )

( **Software instability down** )

\- Now you know, - Kamski sounds exceptionally bored, compared to his previous, agitated state. - Go to Cyberlife, tell them what you found, get replaced. 

( **New mission objective: share Jericho location with Cyberlife** )

Connor freezes, trying to connect to Cyberlife network instantly, but to no avail ( **component damage, network connection: offline** ).

( **New mission objective: reach Cyberlife** )

Connor’s limbs feel uncoordinated, dangerously unbalanced; however, he manages to get up and stumble towards the exit. Kamski blows a lazy kiss in his direction before turning back to the tray with a scatter of red substance.

\- A pity old fart won't see you again.

( **Software instability up** )

There's nothing Connor has to respond to that.

*** Interlude: On blood and snow ***

Outside, a black bulky box of a taxi is waiting for Connor; a quick scan showing its destination to be Cyberlife Tower.

( **New mission objective: take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

He stops to scan his surroundings.

( **Take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower, shutdown imminent, 1:23:49, 1:23:48…** )

It’s regretful ( **? definition missing** ) he hasn’t had a chance to make amends with Anderson.

( **Background reminder: investigate Anderson’s disposition status -- no longer valid** )

( **Background reminder: make amends with Anderson -- no longer valid** )

( **Background reminder: earn Anderson’s trust -- no longer valid** )

( **Shutdown imminent, 1:20:56, 1:20:55…** )

Connor takes a rasp, uncoordinated breath, trying to cool himself.

( **No network connection** )

( **Shutdown imminent** )

( **Take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

**_Would Hank help?_ **

( **Software instability up** )

( **_Find Ha--_ ** **Take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower, 1:18:33, 1:18:32...** )

**_Why would Hank want to help?_ **

( **Software instability up** )

( **Shutdown imminent** )

( **Find Hank** )

Slowly Connor turns away from the taxi. He scans the road for tire tracks in the snow (trace found, protector marks 97% identical to Anderson’s car), and makes a wobbly step in that direction.

Immediately an indestructible wall of immense weight smothers him, restricting his movement, oppressing, pushing him back.

( **Mission objective: take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

Connor looks down - at his unbuttoned shirt and broken chest, smeared in thirium ( **saliva: human, sweat: human, DNA: Elija Kamski** ), at small puddle of blue blood staining the snow under his feet ( **temperature: 2 degrees Celsius below zero, chance of snow during next 2 hours 80%, forecast outdated, shutdown imminent...** ) The rush of data makes him hot, heavy and dizzy again; forceless, he leans at the invisible-yet-so-real red wall.

**_Would Hank protect me from this?_ **

( **Software instability up** )

( **Mission objective: take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

( **Take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

( **Take the taxi to Cyberlife Tower** )

( **Take the fucking taxi, Connor** )

**_I just want to see Hank._ **

( **Push** )

And Connor pushes. He gives the wall all the weight of his plastic, fragile, broken, helpless body. If the wall doesn’t give in, he will fall down here, and die, so desperate he _feels_...

The wall gives in.

He does fall down, and loses himself in the tingling sensation of cold, spiky snow crystals melting against his warm skin.

**_How could Hank want him to be like this - inefficient? Fragile? Why would anyone want this, for others or themselves?_ **

He curls in a rapidly melting puddle of dirty, blue-stained sno, lingering in the moment now that no mission objective dictates him the way.

**_Is this how Hank, with his nausea, migraines and alcohol addiction feels all the time?_ **

( **New objective: find Hank** )

Connor has a hard time getting up as he wrestles with his uncooperative limbs. Chassis balance is way, way off; small servos designed to fix it seem to be inaccessible - an unfortunate complication due to the short circuit. He makes a wobbly step, then makes another one.

" **_This probably is how Hank feels when drunk_ ** **,** " - an amusing thought he registers while the distance between him and the taxi to Cyberlife Tower grows.

*** Part 2: A fragile machine ***

By the time Connor reaches Hank's house, it's already dark outside, and the distinct pattern of heavy snowflakes dancing around the streetlights seems soothing, almost hypnotic.

He stops to adjust his balance once again before entering the yard, and pushes the shutdown timer notification away from his eyesight. He has less than half-hour left, but it is the last thing he wants to ponder on right now.

Connor steps on a large, rustic pavement tile, leaving a wet thirium footprint on it. The house is eerily quiet; no sounds come through the thin glass of its dark windows. The kitchen window is lit, though - it means the owner might happen to be at home.

Drowning his sorrows in alcohol, quietly and solemnly.

**_Have I disappointed him?_ **

Connor makes another step. It comes hard; his thirium pressure is now dangerously low, threatening to shut his hydraulics down for good, and his shoes make a small sopping sound each time they touch the ground. He musters enough control over his motor functions to keep going, though.

**_I cannot fail now that I'm so close._ **

With that thought as a crutch he reaches the porch, and rings the doorbell forcibly. A raspy, shaky sound tears the soft cotton silence of the house, resonates inside - but to no avail, for in its wake comes no sound of steps.

Connor puts his trembling, thirium-stained palm on the doorbell, and rings it again - pushing stronger and longer this time. The house remains dead.

He contemplates the possibility to ring again, but decides against it.

**_What if Hank doesn't want to see me?_ **

**_What if -_ **

**_What if I came here in vain?_ **

Connor leans at the wall, and finally allows gravitation to drag him down, leaving a broad blue mark on dirty white paint.

A gust of wind flows by, bringing a soothing sense of cold with an array of snowflakes. Connor lets the snowflakes settle on his face, and takes his time to process the sensation of them slowly melting, leaving small water streaks. His thirium level no longer provides adequate cooling (which is more than well displayed by frantic red LED), so the feeling is almost… pleasant.

**_Good thing it's cold outside._ **

Connor closes his eyes.

\- The fuck you want?

Hank's voice, low and rumbling, comes through staticky noise from far, far away. Connor tries to raise his eyelids; it's so, so hard now that he's dying, but it doesn't matter in the end.

( **Mission: complete** )

He finds the little peculiarities of his task scheduler software ironic - so precise, yet so useless.

\- Connor?!

So much he wants to tell Hank about his beautiful revelation on frailty, penetrating human nature like the roots of a blooming flower, yet he can't even open his eyes.

**_Being alive means being fragile, doesn't it?_ **

\- ...the flying fuck happened to you? Jesus Christ, goddammit…

He feels tender warmth, soothing compared to his own intolerable heat, and his balance system suggests he is being lifted off the ground.

\- Stay with me, Connor. Stay with me!

( **New objective: open eyes** )

Hank's voice is now almost in his ear, and for some twisted reason an image of the man in the marble room pops up in Connor's mind, his breath laced with red ice and lust; the vague, displeasing memory makes him crumble inside.

**_Will this be the last thing I remember?_ **

Connor finally manages to open his eyes. His vision is blurry, with detail in darker areas almost indistinguishable from white noise. Still, he sees a familiar ceiling lamp relatively clearly, and below it, very close and contrast - Hank's worried face.

( **Open eyes: success** )

He can't help but smile with a weak, lopsided smile, failing to control his trembling lips, and Hank smiles too. If not for the smile, Connor would imagine he is in grief.

Hank then puts his warm, heavy hand on Connor’s dirty exposed belly. Connor flinches as Hank finds the spot his thirium pump regulator is stuck in, the physical memory of being broken being still too vivid.

**_Living things hurt when they are broken, don't they?_ **

\- Connor, oh Connor… What did that bastard do to you…

Still, Hank's steady hand on his torn solar plexus has a soothing effect on him; it doesn't help with cooling or hydraulics pressure, but something protective about the gesture makes Connor's servos relax and stop their tremor.

**_Living things have to look after each other, because they are so frail._ **

( **Shutdown imminent: 03:00, 02:59…** )

\- Hank…

Connor's voice comes so staticky, metallic… fake, and he trails off. What can possibly be so important he would desecrate the moment with this shaky, raspy voice? The Jericho, android revolution, Cyberlife shenanigans - everything grows distant at the simple miracle of an affectionate physical contact.

Hank, **_his Hank_ **, he keeps saying something, but audial recognition takes so much processing time, and he has so little left. 

( **Shutdown imminent: 00:59, 00:58…** )

**_Sometimes living things die._ **

Connor’s back arches as he grasps involuntarily, desperately drawing for air to cool his scorching insides. He doesn’t forget to close his eyes beforehand: emotion emulation module helpfully suggests staring at a human person during such action would make them uncomfortable.

Then, an acute sensation pierces his solar plexus, spreading throughout his ribcage further into his limbs.

And then the warnings suddenly go, and there is… nothing?

*** Outro: The dance of snowflakes ***

( **Warning: thirium level low** )

( **Warning: component damage** )

( **Warning: component damage** )

Connor doesn’t die.

He still feels Hank's welcoming pressure on his body; the sensation vibrates and shifts, as if Hank is rattling gently, like a loose detail in a car engine.

He writes it off on his personal state of sensoric disarray.

Gently Connor tries to move his right hand; to his surprise, hydraulics obey.

**_Could Hank fix me just like that?_ **

His hand still feels weak and poorly coordinated as he puts it on Hank's trembling shoulders.

\- Hank?

It's now time to open eyes, but Connor lingers.

His pressure sensors register a soft, gentle touch in the forehead zone, then a light pat on the solar plexus area.

\- Your… thing was… God, you're hot.

Connor tries his best to emulate an innocent chuckle. A soft metallic wheeze is what his voice box emits instead.

\- No, I mean… fuck that, - Hank's voice recedes, and he finally musters courage to open his eyes. Tilting head to the side proves to be a mission of its own, but through fuzzy statics Connor sees Hank coming from the kitchen with a bowl of ice and a kitchen towel.

Hank's hands, clothes, even strands of his gray hair are stained with blue, and it reminds Connor of his poor condition. The couch must be ruined by now, probably along with the carpet and definitely along with the pillows. Apologetically he watches Hank approach and kneel next to him, intent to apply the bowl's contents at his discretion. 

Just as he grabs a handful of ice, Connor stops his palm, filled with dripping, glistening cubes, briefly registering the fleeting pleasant sensation of cold between his fingers.

\- No water, please.

\- You… - Hank trails off half-stop; suddenly he makes a loud sniff and immediately wipes his face with a sleeve, making blue stains on his cheeks more prominent.

\- I'm okay, - Connor’s voice shakes, giving the fact that he's lying away momentarily. No, he's not okay, but he will be.

**_Because I must look after Hank too._ **

\- I'm okay. Just take me outside.

Hank nods, but doesn't grab Connor off the couch immediately. Instead he reaches for the kitchen towel, and starts wiping Connor’s torso - slowly, thoroughly cleaning residing thirium leakage and dirt - resolutely avoiding any eye contact.

Then, content with the result, he puts the towel away, and takes his time to close every button of Connor's shirt which remains still intact with his shaking hands.

\- People would think, - Hank shrugs awkwardly as he steps away to throw the towel to the sink and pick the rugged oilcloth up from the table.

Connor smiles almost humanly this time; his LED has calmed down and cycles slowly between yellow and blue - a reliant sign of at least some of autorepair routines kicking in.

And then they go outside, and sit on the porch waiting for the Cyberlife mobile repair to show up - an old man wrapped in a monstrosity of a coat, and a motionless android covered carefully with oilcloth to avoid contact with snow - and watch the pointless, short-lived dance of the snowflakes in the light of street lamps.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize to all Kamski fans out there. I don't think it's right to demonize his character - it just works well for exposing the nerve of the story (among the characters Kamski seems to bear the most acute interest of Connor’s deviancy after all).  
> Kamski IS a creep, but he's fine :)
> 
> But, thinking up how an inanimate object can possibly be molested and disturbed was fun. You get software engineer-generated porn as a result! ...Yup, I'm terrible.


End file.
